


The Empire of Dirt

by Sevstir



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-06 01:53:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevstir/pseuds/Sevstir
Summary: Original fiction. Life, love, the world, etc.





	1. All weddings were alike

**Author's Note:**

> Hello - I've been working on this for a while. Felt it was time to give it some air, and an audience. Inspired by many things, but no fandoms, regretfully. At least none I'm willing to admit to. Any comments very welcomed.

Chapter One - All Weddings Were Alike

Anyone passing by the old town hall in the London borough would have noticed how bright the white granite was in the afternoon sunshine. Or that the late Victorian elegance of the structure still held itself proudly against the creeping concrete and plastic modernization of the other buildings. Of course, it was normal to see the couples posing by the steps, photographers capturing the wedding, their most important moment. A bookmark in time, to be gazed at over the passing years with fondness. Or dismay.

Today, if someone had gone by at just the right time, they would have seen a woman in a black and white dress, holding a bunch of small flowers tightly, her compact body pacing back and forth. Her face looked worried, her forehead scrunched up defiantly against life, or maybe just the repeated demands that she smile. Stop frowning, her grandmother used to say, you’re always frowning. This woman wasn’t young, or beautiful, not in the expected way. There was no hard eyed, knowing, inviting look. Her mouth wasn’t particularly full or red, her eyes weren’t outlined in black. There wasn’t a fluffy wedding dress. And she wasn’t propped up on high heels.

But when she looked up to the sky for a moment, an artist might have wanted to capture the look of hope in her eyes. Her face, too, would have needed more than one colour on a palette to trace the way her face seemed carved out of the air, proud, maybe bearing the scars of fighting against an endless series of enemies. Her skin was pale and fine, her jaw fierce and strong. Her dress was well-cut, and the makeup she did wear neat and carefully applied. But the rest - her hair flying in the breeze, the troubled pacing that she was engaged in, the deep frown that made her look as though she were squinting into the distance, measuring the approach of some marauding invaders - might invite comment, or speculation.

In fact, the man who had moved aside to let her pass, was reminded of a dog that he had seen in a kennel recently. He had gone there to find a new pet for his son. It had clearly once been a fine dog, well-bred. How on earth had it landed here, in this rather grim place? Probably this creature had been badly behaved and let go. But when the animal had barely looked up when he and his son had come in, the man had felt slighted. And when it did finally look at him, he had had the unsettling feeling that the dog was looking right through him. It had just been the once, he thought. All right, twice. But really nothing to feel guilty about. Why was he thinking about that, now? And the dog had lifted its fine head, gazing steadily at him, before returning to rest it on the large paws. He was glad his son hadn’t seen the animal. They wound up choosing a medium sized dog, who drooled on them, and started to bark and wag its tail happily the minute a leash was produced. That was better. So the man could walk past the woman in the black and white dress, satisfied in his powers of rational decision, despite somewhat disturbed to be reminded of the kennel visit.

But Miranda, for that was her name, had no idea of the thoughts of the passersby. Her new shoes hurt a bit, and the dress was new and unworn, and she was slightly uncomfortable all dressed up out in the street. But she had needed fresh air, and this was the only place it could be found, so here she was.

All weddings were alike, Miranda supposed. Everyone looking at her, smiling. Secretly, she thought that they were examining her closely for requisite signs of joy. Double checking. She hoped that they were finding whatever they were looking for, written somewhere on the exaggerated face that was supposed to be her special look for the day. Why was extra makeup part of the plan? There would be more logic to everyone being naked in a storm, dodging lightning bolts, assembled around some prehistoric slab of rock, sacrificed to the natural passions and cycles of life. That would be a better test of everlasting devotion. But this was the real world, and her friends had told her to at least buy an expensive mascara, for god’s sake. Dior was good, Charlotte Tilbury better, but really, it was your wedding, come on. No one wants to look bad for that. Have you ever tried concealer? Those dark circles. Could be made lighter. There had followed a discussion on lip colour and whether it should coordinate in any way with one’s shoes. Miranda had promised to get both mascara and concealer. She asked about blush as well, in the hopes that the surprise of the request would stop their conversation. It did.

Aside from wishing that her friends hadn’t really meant to imply that she generally looked bad, Miranda also hoped that now they remained unaware that hat the bridegroom had been up all night. Up until 4am, she remembered, pacing. She turned abruptly. Apparently with the Maid of Honor. Clara. Another turn. Her small heels clicked on the pavement. Clara, the Maid of Honor, his best friend from university. Who had chosen that moment to play nurse to the ill bridegroom, who was sick. A recurrence of the kidney stones which drinking nothing but coffee and beer made worse, who knew. And the stress. Wedding planning was apparently stressful. Too much anxiety, from the weeks before. Too much champagne at the various pre-parties.

She stopped pacing for a moment and looked at the traffic waiting impatiently at the signal. There was that discovery this morning. Was it all the parties? And God knows what he’d gotten up to at the stag night. He’d come home the next afternoon, looking surprisingly clean. Her first thought was that someone must have helped him out. She started pacing again. The borrowed shirt, slicked back hair - it all made her wonder how bad it had been. His appearance had been polished. John was a fairly good-looking man, of course, tallish, of slim build, dark haired, dark eyed, good shoulders, fairly fit, but not one for products, aside from some hair wax to which he was very partial. When he ran out, Miranda was always commissioned to stop in on the way home from work. The shop was on her way. Darling I’m out of that hair thing - could you? Don’t forget! I will be late again. Lots of love. His messages on those days were always somewhat urgent. He was very partial to it. The rest – well. He looked like a person. Neat. Clean. Someone everyone seemed to like. And no one could argue against any of those things.

But that afternoon, after the stag do, he had slumped on the sofa, begging for painkillers and something warm to drink. His throat hurt. While making him some tea, Miranda had asked him if they should use condoms for a while. She had meant it mostly as a joke. Mostly. His answer was short, and excessively rude. She stood there with the cup of tea in her hand watching him leave again, door rattling on its hinges. She poured the tea out in the sink. Starts with you sinking into his arms, ends up with your arms in his sink, she had mused, wishing that particular slogan on a t-shirt had not stuck in her head.

He’d come back later that night, completely pissed, unpolished, eyes red, stubble rougher than usual. Apologizing. Wanting sex. She had thought about it for a moment, and pleaded headaches and work. He had passed out a few minutes later. I should have just said yes, she told herself. Then he’d feel happy. And guilty. Then she felt bad for even thinking that way. So she had watched him for a while, before turning over, and looking out the window, waiting to fall asleep.

The Maid of Honor - Miranda had trouble thinking of her now without her official title – Clara, she made herself say - had been very sweet about it all this morning, when she had pulled her aside to reveal the damaged state of the bridegroom. John hadn’t wanted to worry you, of course. He is always so thoughtful. He would be fine for the ceremony, not to worry. How wonderful he is to you, to keep from spoiling your night before. You are so lucky that you managed to win him. Miranda thanked her, remembered about feeling gratitude, asked about her, asked about him. She was sure it wasn’t her fault that the words seemed strung together by some magazine. Clara gave her a quick hug and three air kisses - see, all those platitudes must have been all right, there’s an increase of two kisses over the last time - and Miranda watched as Clara ran back to tend to the bridegroom.

It was only a small wedding. Not that much to arrange, really. A registry office. Not a church. And here she was, standing outside. Looking up the beige steps, up to a building made to look important, Victorian and Roman detailing mashing together in a sort of biscuit-tin palace. Impressive, though increasingly out of place. Though the stairs looked formidable. Miranda wondered if she would even be able to climb them, as out of breath as she suddenly felt just standing there looking at them. Remorse followed. This was not the positive mental attitude, the PMA, that she was supposed to cultivate. John kept telling her to be less cynical, less judgemental, more forward-thinking. Today is the day! he would say every morning. He told her that she also needed a phrase to say to herself in the morning, looking at the mirror. Miranda hadn’t found the right one yet, although she was trying. She looked back up at the stairs. Any minute now. She would go inside, into the local government hall. Life-changing things happened here. And people changed their lives, on purpose, apparently. She was participating in this grand process. Another name to be added to another file, registering all the changes in the borough, parish, whatever they called it. She’d studied primary sources at university. Now she was becoming one. Her foot was asleep, squeezed too tight in the new shoes she’d bought to match the dress. Her mother had been excited about the shoes. Miranda touched her gold and pearl earrings. They were still there. So beautiful. Her mother had bought them. And they both knew she couldn’t afford it. Those points wouldn’t be in the historical records.

Another couple was nearby. They’d clearly just gone through with it. The two of them were smiling for the photographer, cheek to cheek, standing by a white London taxi festooned with balloons tied to the antenna. The groom, now new husband, squeezed her hand. They both kissed, and each kicked one heel back in the air, squealing. Then they looked at each other and giggled. And hugged. Miranda looked away.

In a few minutes, it would be her turn. Everyone was inside. Not a lot of people. Her future husband to be. John Barnes. She wasn’t taking his name, they’d agreed. Still, it was a fine name. He’d been so keen on her when they first met. Barely slowing down in his pursuit. Little handwritten love notes left on the windscreen of her car, under the wipers. All signed, jb, in small letters. She’d thrown out the first two, not realizing what they were. Thinking they were some advertising thing, trash.

Miranda had met him in a pub. His group had been standing next to her group. She’d seen him glance at her a few times. Then he finally came over. His pickup lines were no better or worse than anyone else’s, she supposed. He was good looking in a storefront sort of way. Everything matched. But his dark eyes were full of promise, and he was funny, and he seemed to be watching her for cues. He asked a lot of questions. Then she asked him what he did and he said that he was a banker. She made a face, and he laughed. Don’t you like money, he asked. He had actually seemed surprised when she said no.

After that, he talked about places he wanted to visit. The importance of the world. Climate change. It was her third beer, and she wasn’t paying attention to whether it matched what he had said before. And her friends were leaving, and she was just as happy to go out and get some air, head home. But he had persuaded her to give him her number. They’d never see each other again. Did she really want that? In this lonely world? Didn’t we all need friends? She supposed no, that wasn’t right, and suddenly her number was in his phone.

They went out to dinner, and she had discovered that he was a salesperson for the bank. A manager. But he sold add-ons, insurance policies, got people to upgrade accounts, invest. Rallied the troops to do better, sell more. After the fourth dinner, she admitted to herself that he really was funny. His eyes sized her up, observed everything. He turned away food if it was deemed too cold, beer if it was too warm. And he did the same for her meals and drinks, quizzed her on whether she liked what he had ordered for them both, made sure that whatever she got met his standards. She had got used to the look on the waiters’ faces.

And he bought her flowers. She liked flowers. After a series of long goodbyes in his car, they had slept together, finally. He was careful, neatly passionate. She was fairly sure he had developed an order in which he did things, touched places. But it wasn’t a bad order, really. He didn’t turn over and snore. He wasn’t rough. His eyes did glow mysteriously in the dark. The third time was a bit better. And the order was somewhat reassuring, she considered. Surprises could be exhausting. After that, everything speeded up. He wanted to settle down, he said. Be with someone seriously. Take things seriously. Buy matching towels and sheets. She had laughed, she couldn’t help it. She had never really put together nice towels with true love. But it was true, she agreed. Home comforts. That was part of building a life. He wasn’t wrong.

Finally, John had said he meant it. They were leaving a champagne bar that overlooked the river. A romantic spot, favored by the bankers from Canary Wharf, whom, she suspected, he admired. They were in the quiet cobbled street when he finally decided to pull her closer. He wanted them to be together. For real. To commit. There would be hard days. But they would help each other. She took a deep breath. He hadn’t actually asked her to marry him, but she guessed that the phrases in books didn’t have to be followed to the letter. Saying you meant it was serious. Miranda had never planned what to say if this situation came up, so she whispered that she’d like that too. And she kissed him. He pulled her away after a few seconds and and said he was happy. He seemed happy. They would go and buy a ring next week. He reached over and found her hand as he drove them back to the flat they were now sharing.

Miranda recalled how he liked talking about towels and sheets. Silly things. But she knew what he meant. Hadn’t she watched the couples in the department stores? Arguing over grey stripes or pastels. Buying cookware for a dinner party. And she walked past them, down the aisles of French ceramic pots in various sizes and Egyptian cotton, listening to their small domestic squabbles. Alone. John said things that she thought no one would ever say to her. Like wanting to be with her forever. Like how seeing her face made him smile. That maybe one day they’d have children together, and go to the park, and sit and watch the ducklings and their little one grow.

Miranda smiled. He did love her. She loved him. It was just nerves. Having to do this in front of people. She looked up, and her friend from school was waving at her frantically. “Now, Miranda. Now! It’s time. Come on!” And she gathered up her skirt and went up the stairs as fast as she could while trying to keep her shoes on her feet. Cinderella in reverse, she thought. Running in before the clock strikes 12 and everyone and everything turned back into pumpkins and animals and straw. She had entered the great room, slightly breathless, and there he was, at the front, turning to look at her, a strange little smile on his face. He looked a bit grey, actually. Last night must have been worse than anyone let on.

Miranda stepped forward and walked past the few people that were there. Four of his friends from work and four from university, and the Maid of Honor. His father. His mother and stepfather. Her best friend from the school where she worked. Everyone called her Queenie. Short for Alexandra, she always joked.

Her mother was in America. She couldn’t come over, it was too far. Too expensive. After her husband, Miranda’s father, had died, she’d managed as best she could. Social security. Some temp jobs that never seemed to last. Her grandmother had tried to help, and her mother had moved to a new town and started a small business. But the little nest egg her father had left behind didn’t last long. Her mother wasn’t practical, even though she was very pragmatic. “Find someone who will look after you,” her mother and grandmother had both told her. It made sense.

Miranda remembered walking with her father as a small child. He’d always pointed out particular objects in the windows of the antique stores they would walk past. There had been a few blocks of them, shadowy and dusty, filled with treasures. He wanted her to understand what was beautiful, what was worth something, even more than the money. “Remember this,” he had said. “You are worth beauty. Remember who you are. This is what you deserve. You are as beautiful. Remember that.” His words seemed final, somehow. It hadn’t seemed prophetic, but a few years later, when he died, suddenly, it surprised everyone. Even though he had been ill, they all expected he would linger or persist, just the way everyone else they knew did. Would he have wanted her to marry? Yes, she concluded. Didn’t all fathers want their daughters to marry?

A week after John had proposed, she called her mother. “Getting married!” her mother had exclaimed. “I never thought you would want to, really. You always seemed so independent.” Then she had said she was happy. It was close to congratulations. As close as she was likely to get, anyway. It wasn’t her mother’s fault if she’d spent more time reading than dressing up. Listening to music instead of going out to clubs. Studying instead of going to parties. If you don’t chase after something, no one thinks you want it. That’s fair. Miranda felt the beginning of tears. I wish they were all here.

But now, here I am, she thought, wiping a hand quickly across her eyes. It’s like a play. You can’t really back out, because people are watching, and even if they don’t know the whole story, they have an idea of how it is supposed to end. Walking off, or flubbing your lines, that wouldn’t go over well. They’d blame you. It’s supposed to be like this, your heart a bit constricted, your throat a bit tight, she thought. She watched the registrar copy their names and address carefully with a big fountain pen, in a sort of antique script. This was love, wasn’t it, where you proved it to everyone crowded together in a fairly big room for 15 minutes, adorned with paintings of the borough and a mayor from 100 years ago, before you vacated the stage for the next group. She looked at the small nosegay of spring flowers, wilting from the heat of her hand, fragile, small. She held them to her nose, and signed the register, and kissed the man who was now her husband, and felt the weight of the ring on her left hand. She was his.


	2. Ready or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone and anyone who's had a look at this. As always, comments welcome.

 

 

 

“Is it ready yet?” John’s voice called out from the tiny living room, over the TV. It sounded like sport commentators trying to outdo each other for superiority in statistical knowledge, if nothing else. A general air of disagreement.

Probably somewhat bitter as well, Miranda thought. Always easier to talk about something than do it. And that sense of jealousy. Even if they had been out there once, they weren’t any longer. Could they have done better? Maybe yes, maybe no. She rarely stayed to watch the commentaries after the game. John told her that was strange, but then again these days he thought a lot of what she did was strange. It spoils the game, she had told him. I’ve just watched people fight it out, and now they’re going to tell me what to think about what I saw. He had looked at her oddly, then gone back to staring at the TV. That’s how you learn, he had said to her last week. But I suppose you think you know it all already.

“Is it ready yet?” His voice called out again. She finished drying the last pot, and went out to see what he wanted.

“Is what ready yet?” Miranda asked. “We just finished dinner.”

“Dessert. And a coffee would be nice. Aren’t you making one for yourself? Isn’t that what you were doing in there?”

“No, I was washing up. I could make a coffee, sure. But there’s no dessert. Why would there be?”

“Not a full meal without dessert. Miranda. Really. We’ve been married for three months now. I thought you would have figured out what I like by now.” John rolled his eyes.

Miranda looked at him, sprawled on the sofa. His gaze was fixed on the television. “Didn’t realize you were missing something.”

“That’s just it, you don’t think,” he replied without looking up.

Miranda attempted a smile. “It might have been easier if you’d come to the market with me after work. Then you could pick out something you wanted.”

“Really? You can’t do it? I don’t know, Miranda. You made yourself out to be this go-getter type. Like all Americans. Know it all. And now you can’t even figure out how to pick up some cakes.”

“It wasn’t in the job description,” Miranda tried to laugh. “Cakes, got it.”

“Well done love. And coffee anytime you’re ready would be nice.” John finally glanced up at her and smiled, that sort of winning smile he had when they went down to the pub with his friends. He had seemed to have so many friends. They all gathered around him, whispering, then laughing, arguing about nothing, their jobs, who should host the shows on television, whether it was worse to visit the in-laws or the dentist.

Two or three drinks later, Miranda reflected, it didn’t really matter what they were saying. Sometimes one of them would turn up with a girlfriend, and the two women would be always be seated together. Usually the new girlfriend started talking about the States, and now they’d never been there, or how Florida or Las Vegas was completely amazing, and Miranda would nod. She’d ask them questions about what they liked, where they had gone. Whoever it was always seemed to assume she had been to all those places. Finally the conversation would turn to clothes. The women tended towards high heels, and they would animatedly mention shoe sales and brands, before looking down at Miranda’s flats, declaring them simply darling, and changing the subject. Often there were a couple of questions about the group of friends. This was particularly true if the woman was making a big effort with whichever friend it was. Occasionally they talked about jobs, and when asked what she was doing there, she’d explain, briefly. She had a job as a teacher. In a secondary school. Met John in a pub. He was a banker. Project manager. Sales. That sort of thing. John’s group of friends went through girlfriends pretty rapidly. Miranda could only remember one of them turning up more than three times. She’d seemed nice enough. Then she disappeared too. John said his friends were young. Why should they tie themselves down?

The kettle switched off, and she poured the hot water into the two cups filled with instant coffee and milk. One sugar for him. She’d watched him do it, followed his directions. Although it hardly seemed to matter which way to do it. Milk first, coffee first, coffee second, milk second. Little details. Like it no longer mattered to her whether people asked her what she was doing there. She stirred, then opened the cupboards, looking for biscuits. Biscuits. Everyone here did seem to have biscuits, that was true. There had been some. Were they gone? It was only a couple of weeks ago, she was sure, that she had bought two packs. On special. Wait. There, in the corner. A telltale red colored pack of digestives. Half-gone. She threw out the first one, and added the next four to a plate, and brought it out, placing it almost proudly on the side table.

“Look, there’s biscuits.”

“Oh, well done. Better than nothing. Are you going to come sit down finally?”

“Be there in a minute. Just need to get my cup.”

“We should probably get a tray. Make life easier.”

Miranda turned back to the small kitchen. The white metal cupboards seemed to shine back at her, even when she’d switched off the light. There was a breadbox by the window. The large clear panes overlooked a scraggly garden. Sometimes she’d come in late at night, when she couldn’t sleep, and look out onto to the lawn. Hardly a lawn. More like grass in places, with dark ridges of dirt where the rain or footsteps had washed away the tiny plants. There were rose bushes at the sides, mostly tangled, mixed in with escaped branches of overgrown hedges and tree shoots. She would watch, and sometimes, sitting in the dark, would be the faint shadow of a man, slightly darker than the plastic chair he was sitting in, standing out as a strange shape against the organic madness of the rectangular garden. He was usually smoking, the dim red tip glowing a bit brighter when he inhaled. She wondered what he was smoking. Sometimes, she thought she could smell something sweeter, like pot or hash. But he sat in the same way, facing the same direction. And always around 2am. Miranda wanted to open the window, breathe in the fresh air of the night, the smoke from his cigarette, earth, all the nighttime scents to fill up her lungs. But John didn’t like the night air. Said it made his asthma act up. The fabric freshener he liked to spray on the sofa didn’t seem to bother him. She had told him it wasn’t that healthy. He had told her it made the house feel like a home. And that shouldn’t bother her, should it? She was always moaning at him, wasn’t she, to pick up his clothes, or put the laundry together. She protested. He complained last time she’d picked up his clothes, that she’d taken the wrong ones. She had snapped back that they all looked the same, didn’t they, piled on the floor. Maybe he’d like to spray them as well.

They hadn’t spoken for three days after that. She didn’t know that people really went for days without speaking. It had seemed like something that only happened in books. You had to talk, didn’t you? Apparently not. She glanced out the window again. No one. Too early. She picked up her mug, and went out to the sofa. He was stretched out over the entire length. Miranda sat in the chair, and watched the TV from an angle.

“How’s the coffee?”

“Fine. Coffee, isn’t it? Biscuits a bit stale though. Should get some new ones.”

Suddenly she felt like she was back teaching again. What does it mean when there’s no distinct pronoun, asked the voice in her head. Her class would have more interesting answers, she was certain, than the correct one. Add it to your shopping list, that’s what it means.

“Anything else you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We just ate. Can’t really think right now. Whatever you get’ll be fine.”

“Are we still going out tomorrow night?” Miranda drank some of her coffee. It was ok. Really they needed a filter and a coffee grinder. Maybe after the next paycheck. She seemed to buy most of the groceries. John said he was saving for their future.

“I’m not certain. Colin said he’d text me, let me know. But I’m probably going out right after work for a pint with the office. Do you want to come?”

“We’re all due to go out tomorrow to the local pub. It’s half-term, figured I should go.”

John looked at her, a slight impish smile playing on his lips. “Finally fitting in, are we?”

She frowned. “Don’t think I ever didn’t fit in, really. I’m just not down the pub that often.”

“Well, if you want to try and get them to like you, you’d better make an effort. And…there’s that bloke too. I expect he’s a draw.” He winked at her. “Always good to have a flirtation at work. Makes it easier to wake up.”

Miranda wrinkled her forehead. “Bloke? Flirtation? I’m not sure who you mean.”

His smile grew broader. “What an actress. Must be what draws you to teaching, isn’t it, easier to pretend you like the little bastards. You know exactly which bloke I mean. That one you’re working with on the literacy campaign. Of course there’s still the music teacher. Maybe you can get them fighting over you at the pub.”

Miranda burst out laughing. “Paul? He’s a lovely guy, but didn’t realize I had said that I like him. Literacy work not desperately sexy stuff,” she tried to joke, “but he’s very good at what he does.”

“That’s what she said,” John snorted. “Admiration. Once a woman admires someone, it’s not long from there to bed.”

“Right,” Miranda laughed. “Absolutely planning to shag my co-workers. You’ve found me out.”

“I’m watching you, don’t worry,” John replied.

“I’m not worried. I know you’re only joking.”

John didn’t say anything, but took a bite of one of the biscuits and made a face, and put down the rest. “Well, don’t let them know how rubbish you are at the housekeeping. That will put them right off.”

“I don’t think they care.”

“Well, you certainly don’t.”

“No, when I’m working on how to teach a tricky mix of low-literacy kids and debutant English learners, I’m not really thinking about which brand of biscuits should go on the shopping list.”

John made a face. He stood up, and switched off the television. “See. There you go again. The minute you feel under threat, you throw out a bunch of long words and try to make out like you’re some kind of good Samaritan. Like it isn’t good enough to try and make someone you’re married to happy, someone you’ve promised to be with for life.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Miranda protested. “I’m just not thinking about anything else.”

“No. You aren’t. You’re thinking about your new friends at school, and going out to the pub with them. And playing music. When you should be working.”

“I am working. Andy let me have the key to the piano room during lunch. It’s my lunch.”

“Oh, that’s cozy. Key to a private room. You’d better watch yourself, my girl. Soon he’ll be in there after you. Locked room at a school. Haven’t you got any sense? They’re all going to be talking about you. You better not spend any time with him at the pub. Tongues wagging.”

“I’m in there alone. That’s ridiculous.”

“No, I’m never right, am I? Two men you spend time with alone. Well, there’s always one foolish girl who ignores the gossip. Better keep out of trouble. We need your salary.”

“It’s just playing music. I’m not doing anything.” Her voice had gone up higher. “I don’t want to lose my job. I actually like most of it.”

“Sure you do. Better watch yourself then.” He got up and leant over to kiss her, a dry, coffee tinged kiss that she could feel on her lips after he stood up. “Probably better you don’t go to the pub that often after all. We’ll work out where to meet tomorrow, all right? I’m going to go have a shower. Don’t do the washing up.”

“It’s done.”

“No, the mugs, of course. Hate it when you make the water go cold.”

“I only did that in the beginning, I didn’t even realize.”

“The things you don’t realize. Good thing you’ve got me. Come to bed soon then, right?” He watched her. “There’s nothing on.”

“I will,” Miranda answered slowly, putting down the remote.

She sat and listened to the shower, and stared at the dark screen. There probably wasn’t any point in looking, not now. It was late, anyway. She finished her coffee, making a face, and judged the distances to the light switches that needed to be turned off, the locks to be checked, the knobs on the gas oven, the toaster to be unplugged. Her bag was under the desk, packed for tomorrow. She’d printed out her work on the project to show to Paul for their fortnightly meeting.

She got up and made sure that the bag was tightly fastened, then crossed the room to the front door. Locked. To the kitchen for the double check. Gas off. She ran her fingers over the knobs twice, just to be sure. Yes. And the toaster was unplugged. She hit the two white switches, and the room was dark, except for the light coming from the houses across the way, the light filtering through the trees that marked the ends of each piece of land. There were still quite a few people up, it wasn’t that late. Not really. She looked down to the garden. There was a strip of light shining onto the rough ground, the door to the garden flat must be open. Miranda wondered if the man was going to come out and smoke. It was too early. Maybe he came out other times too, and she’d just never noticed. John was right. There were a lot of things she didn’t notice. She stood and waited, but no one came out. Then the light switched off, and the garden was dark again. If I had a garden, I’d at least clip the roses, she thought. Maybe throw some grass seed around.

She heard a door slam, and realized with a start the shower was off. Time for bed, teeth brushing, all the rituals. She glanced at the trees outside. Was the wind picking up? Maybe it would rain tomorrow.

 

 

 


	3. Everyday Rain

 

 

 

It was raining the next morning, and Miranda lay in bed, listening to the drops fall against the tiles on the roof. She slowly got up, and went through the routine of preparing herself for the day, trying not to wake John, who didn’t need to get up for another hour. He worked close by, while her job was an hour train journey away, in one of the outer boroughs to the east of the city.

She was just brushing her hair, when she heard John’s voice. “Good morning. Skirt’s a bit short, isn’t it? You sure that’s appropriate for a teacher?”

Miranda looked down. She smoothed out the dark pencil skirt over her tights. “I don’t think so,:” she started to say. “A lot of the teachers wear this sort of thing.”

“Oh, is that right? John replied. “Well maybe just too short for you then. Bit youngish, isn’t it? Told you not to shop in that store.”

Miranda put down the hairbrush, and looked at herself in the mirror. Dark jacket, skirt, tights, moss green shirt, that buttoned down. One of the little buttons had broken in half, but it was mostly hidden by the waistband of the skirt. She liked the shirt. Dark shoulder length hair, slightly puzzled expression. If anything, she thought maybe she looked a little too much like an air hostess. Maybe that was the problem. Her legs looked normal, she thought. She frowned a bit more.

John’s voice broke through. “Well, it’s your choice. Of course. Just want you to look your best. I think people here dress a little differently. More sophisticated, isn’t it? Well text me later. You’re not going to the pub, are you?”

Miranda made another face at the mirror, and turned back towards the bed. “Yes, I already said I would go. But it won’t be long. Just text me when you know where we are all meeting up.”

“Sure. Come give us a kiss.” She leant over the bed, and he smacked her behind. “Have a good day. Stay out of trouble.” He gave her that little grin he had, and pulled her down for another kiss.

She finally stood up and found herself smiling at him. “I’ll try. You too.”

 

***

 

She waited on the platform for the train in the drizzling rain. It was the middle of February and it was chilly but not cold. Miranda thought she’d seen the small bursts of crocus around a tree on her way rushing to the train, but she wasn’t sure. Now the train was late, and she’d be lucky to get there in time. At least the first period was the literacy meeting. It was a light day, and everyone would be thinking of nothing but the end of it, when they could finally leave.

The train finally came into view, its yellow front intruding upon the monochrome browns and greys of the crowd on the platform who all crowded in. She found a place to lean against the patterned carpet rest by the door, and listened to the hiss of the door closing. The crowd seemed to be hissing and steaming as well, wet on the surface, damp on the inside.

She watched the passing scenery, the people leaving, arriving, the bustle of on and off the train. At the end of the line, she got off with the crowd and headed to the bus, waiting on line again to board for the 15 minute journey to the school. Sometimes she would walk, but today the bus was the only way to get there in time. There was one seat, next to a boy she didn’t know from the school, his uniform trousers a giveaway. He made a face at his two friends sitting behind them. She looked sharply at him, and he turned away. At her stop, she descended the stairs. There at the bottom, one of her Year 7 students looked up. “Hello Miss,” the girl in the jacket said with a shy smile. The polo shirt that was part of the school uniform extended just past the bottom of the jacket. Growing, it seemed.

“Hello Korina, looking forward to half term?”

“No, Miss. I like school, Miss.”

They walked up the short dead end road to the school together. No one seemed to be rushing today. Usually there was always a group of people who ran screaming to the gates, laughing. Today it seemed calm, almost sedate. Maybe a lot of them stayed home today, A thought.

“Don’t you like having the time off then?” she asked the girl by her side. Sometimes she wondered how some of them stayed afloat in this rough and tumble. The quiet students, practically knocked over by the rest, mocked for doing their work, otherwise ignored for the most part by both students and teachers. They weren’t a problem. But they were there. Miranda could leave, but these kids couldn’t, didn’t, were there all the time. This was their life. She was just visiting. They didn’t have that luxury.

“It’s hard to find a place to read at home,” Korina said. “My two brothers get the table when my mother isn’t cooking. And my little sister shares my room.”

“Can you go to the library? Is it far from your house?”

“Not too far, Miss, but my father likes to drive me. So I have to wait for him to come home.”

Miranda nodded. “Well, maybe he will have time next week.”

Korina looked hopeful for a minute. “Yes, Miss. It’s only a week.” The bell rang, and her head lifted like an animal who’d realized they were being hunted. “Bye, Miss.” And she took off with a little skipping run, her bag banging against her back with every quick step.

 

***

 

Miranda went up the stairs and into the building and up to the wide corridors on the first floor. She’d been excused from helping with homeroom duties to work on the literacy project. It wasn’t her class anyway; she took attendance sometimes, or set up presentations to show them. They were a nice group though. Maybe next year, when she had her own form, they would be as good. She peered into the staff room. Paul was there, chatting to Maggie, the head of department. She had the feeling he had spotted her. There was no point in going in there and interrupting them, and announcing to Maggie that she hadn’t come in earlier than now. So she carried on, walking slowly to nearly the last door of the t-shaped hall, and ducked down so she could open the door with the key on the lanyard around her neck. It was imprinted repeatedly with the name of the school in blue and red, Coombs.

As she opened the door, she had a sense of pride that it was her room. She was in charge. People came in to observe, students filed in and charged out, but the layout of it, everything on the walls, everything that she tried to do was contained in this boxy, green carpeted, beige walled space. It was one of the smaller classrooms, but it didn’t matter. It was hers. The three large windows opened onto the courtyard outside and the playing fields. A went over to the window and turned the latch to pull open one of the window panels. A burst of wet grass smell and the slight smell of dust and the heavier one of frying from the cafeteria all filtered through into the empty room. She wove back through the tables, pushing one into its correct place, and went over to her desk, taking off her coat and hat, and hanging them on the hooks behind her chair. Her hands went unconsciously to her hair, then her skirt, pulling it down. Was it too short? Well, it was too late now. Faced with the reality of being closely observed by at least 60 faces over the rest of the day, she suddenly wished she’d listened to John.

She switched on the computer, and sat down to watch it turning on and loading. She tapped on the email icon. Only three. Two announcements about half term to share with the students and some extra-curricular sports activities, and one email from Paul saying he was running late. And he was already there. Conscientious. Hard-working. Someone who would always do the right thing. Yet sometimes she felt this darkness from him, a sort of bitterness that he knew all the systems, all the right terms to use to get things implemented. A Myth of Sisyphus character, in the existential fashion. Knew he was set to push the rock uphill, endlessly, over and over, through a rotating cast of characters, heads of departments and schools, personalities, and children who would grow up, forgetting all his help, and raise children of their own. He’d been working there in the borough for 20 years. She envied his steadiness. And John thought she fancied him. She wondered what he would say if she told him about comparing him to the man in the Greek myth via Camus. She laughed out loud for a moment, mostly at herself. Then she opened up her bag and pulled out the short report on what they had been working on and looked at it, and she typed a quick reply to Paul’s email – No worries, I’m here now – whenever you’re ready – knowing he would hear the alert on his Blackberry and be able to excuse himself from talking with the head.

A few minutes later, there was a slight knock at the door, then it pushed open. In a school, a knock was intention rather than warning. All doors were open at all times, by necessity. The door pushed open and Paul stuck his head through, regardless, to ask if he could come in. “Good time? Am I too early?”

“Hi Paul,” Miranda said, standing up. “No, the trains were running late – as was I. Sorry to keep you.”

Paul smiled, and limped over to one of the tables and set down his large black satchel of papers on one of the desks. He started taking off his coat. “Horrible day. Still, we need the rain for the garden. Spring is – or should be – right around the corner.”

“How is your garden doing?”

He looked serious for a moment. “Well, I’ve been getting my part ready for the vegetables. And doing some clear out. But mostly I’m working on my wife’s section. She is in charge of the flowers. And she does a beautiful job.” He stopped for a minute, and pulled out a folder and a book and what looked like a glossy bound project book. “But she’s not been well, I‘m afraid. Here,” and he took out two books from his satchel. “I brought you these books you asked about. One is the Freire book we talked about. The other is something from the English and Media Centre on textual analysis. It’s got some very good projects and examples to use. Even with the younger students.”

Miranda took the books, slowly, looking over the covers. “Thank you. That’s so kind of you. I’ll get them back to you next week. Your wife – I’m sorry – I hope it’s nothing serious.”

He raised his eyes to hers. They were a kind of crinkled, watery blue color, and for a moment, Miranda felt this transparency between them, and with a shock of pain, knew what he was going to say wasn’t going to be good. “It is, yes, somewhat. But she’s improving. Thank you for asking.” He smiled, and the sense she had of prickly pain lessened. “She’s in good hands, I’m sure. I know.”

Miranda nodded. It was obvious he didn’t wish to talk about it anymore, but it seemed that politeness at least forced her to say something. “Please let me know if there is anything I can do.” All the other things, all the other questions she might have wanted to ask had been pushed back by the sharp points of social convention, not your business, fear, and the moment of acute pain she had witnessed. She didn’t want to embarrass him. “Thank you for the books. The Freire I’ve read bits and pieces of, but never the whole thing. I think it’s going to be particularly useful here.”

He smiled at her again, his eyes heavy. “Yes. A Marxist critic in a Public Private Partnership school. The ironies compound themselves. Yet I don’t think he’d find that much here to shout about.” He paused. “Still, it’s useful to remember. The situations are the same – children coming from low literacy backgrounds whose capacities are being judged based on either what they know, or what they should know. An assumption of cultural capital. Not much use when some of the children coming to us have parents who can’t read. We measure them against cultural norms, ours, of course. We find them wanting. And judge them freely. Yet we continue to throw the same question at them as a group – why can’t you attain on the same level as your peers?”

Miranda nodded. “Except they have no peers. In fact, it’s the whole idea of peer groups that’s wanting. That’s what I wrote in the report. Here.” She turned and picked the copy off her desk and handed it to him.

He glanced down at the title page. “Thank you, Miranda for this. I look forward to reading it.” He placed it carefully with his other papers. “Yet as long as we must fill out the same charts for them as everyone else, I don’t see much hope of anyone taking that into consideration. Shall we begin?”

“Yes, of course. Shall we sit here?” Miranda pointed to the table closest to her desk.

“Yes, that’s fine. What do you want to start with? Do you want to go over your PowerPoints for next week?”

She went over to the computer. “Sure, that would be great. Thank you.” Miranda picked up the remote and switched on the projector. “It’s all just got to warm up.”

“Not a problem.” He watched her as she pulled at her skirt, and made some notes on his pad. “Do you feel comfortable in front of the class?”

Miranda made a face, and seemed to be considering the question. “I think so. Mostly? I try to focus on the receptive ones, and scan the class.” She stopped. “Mostly I don’t think about it. I try to listen to them. Between that, getting through the lesson, and keeping an eye on the usual disruptive lot, hoping I won’t have to ask them to leave the class, I’m not really thinking about me that much.”

“It’s important that you wear clothes that you feel comfortable in. You know they watch every move.” He looked uncomfortable. “Just now. You were pulling at the bottom of your skirt. It’s the unconscious tics that frequently interrupt the concentration of the class. Isn’t that interesting?” He looked happier now that it wasn’t about her. “There have been some remarkable studies done on audience reception. Worth reading. I will try to bring one in next week – no, after half term.”

Miranda blushed and looked up to watch the screen come on, as the program began to load. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Someone said something to me. This morning. Anyway. Thank you for pointing it out. Sorry. That’s right, of course.”

Paul smiled at her, but didn’t say anything. He watched as she flipped through the slides, explaining what she was going to say. He stopped her at the fifth slide. “Slow down a bit. And this one – it’s very good. But maybe this would be the right time to give them questions. Let them work in groups. So you see,” he got up here, and pointed to the board. “Instead of telling them this information, can you think of ways to phrase a question, so that they come up with the answer? Here, leave that up, and let’s sit down and work on some possible questions.”

Miranda went and sat down across from him. “So for the first one?”

“What do you want them to know?”

“I want them to think about the setting. Why the author chose it? Or the significance of it?”

“Why are you asking the question?”

She looked down and stopped her hand from pulling at her skirt. It had become a tic, she thought. How odd. “I suppose I’m worried that asking them about the significance of it will be too much. Too hard. But that seems wrong.”

He smiled. “Yes, you’re right there. But some of them will get that question more easily. It’s a matter of learning styles. And frequently the most gifted in the class will be able to answer the more difficult questions, but will need guiding back through the roads they took subconsciously to achieve that thought. Do you see what I mean?”

“Absolutely. I don’t want to shut them down, but I don’t want them to feel like I’ve asked one question with only one answer.”

“That’s it. And the danger in testing as well. Open and closed questions. Give different results.”

They worked in silence, A writing questions on the computer for a new screen, while Paul watched. Finally he spoke up. “That’s good. I think just change that second question. It’s a little too leading. Which detail you want is not as important as their ability to notice detail. But that’s good. Just send me the final version, and if I have any more comments, I will send them along.” He smiled and started packing up.

“An hour goes quickly.”

Paul finished putting all his notes and papers back into the folder and back into his black bag. “As time does.” He glanced at her hand. “You’re married then. But looks like a new ring?”

“Yes. At the end of October. Seemed a romantic time to marry.”

He chuckled. “Yes, suppose so.” He looked at her for a minute, and his face changed, then returned to its usual composure. “First year tricky, that’s what they say. It wasn’t – not for us – but then there’s exceptions to every rule. Have a good half-term break, Miranda.”

She wanted to hug him. He looked somewhat lost, putting on his coat. But then he pulled out his phone. “Heading to the next school. Full day today of meetings. If your head asks, tell her I will set something up following the break.”

“I will. Thank you, Paul. And for the books. And everything.”

“Pleasure. Good luck then until I see you again.” And he left, the door slowly closing behind him.

Miranda looked at the clock. Thank god this was a free. Then the break, then two classes. One of them she was going to have them write something. Maybe they’d watch part of a DVD. It’d be fine. She went over to the lights, and switched them off, then back to her desk. She pushed away the keyboard and lay her head down over her crossed arms, her eyes shut. She wanted to pull at her skirt, but that would mean uncrossing her arms, and raising her head. The sunlight starting to break through the cloud cover seemed to be piercing her eyelids. She sneezed. Dusty floor. Cleaning the first thing to be cut.

“Oh god,” she said out loud. Then she pinched her lips tightly together so that she wouldn’t say anything else.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. To the pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out and about.

 

 

 

Miranda finally walked out with a group from her department. Words were flying around in the air like balloons, the sudden lightness of freedom and open time not only for the students. All the women in the admin offices waved gaily as they went by. “See you down there!” They called out to everyone they saw through the open door, as one of the teachers, Theo, went in to wish them all a good break. “We’ll be down soon!”

She thought it was nice that everyone spent time together, at least on these sorts of days, where the community and commonality of what they went through brought them all together. A little like soldiers, she thought. Everyday battles. Usually, where she’d worked before, that didn’t happen. Lines were drawn. But that had been back in the States. People were more willing to embrace community here. Even in the city.

They all went through the side door, and back down the little street she’d walked up so solemnly with the student this morning. Then they turned right, and started walking up to the pub. Natalie, the drama teacher, came up beside her. “I’m exhausted!” she exclaimed. “Trying to get them all to do their pieces, and stay in the groups – but we managed it. One group brought in costumes, bless. I told them we’d film them after break – do you want to help out? You’re good with the cameras and sound. That was a brilliant day we had out in Canary Wharf with the Year 11s. We’ve got to do it again.”

“I loved it,” Miranda said. “And so did all the students. They looked brilliant – in their suits, all dressed up, knew their lines.” She stopped at the lights and watched half the group run across the busy road. The cars waited. “Wish we could do that more often.”

“I know. I know, I wish we could. It’s good for them. Everything they come up with in their lines. It’s their way of exploring. The world. What could be their world. They don’t even get that far usually, do they?” She cackled gently. “Even I don’t get that far usually.” She waved at her street as we walked past. “Home sweet home.”

“No. What is it, a mile away? But it’s a different world. But it shouldn’t be. That awkwardness. The things we take for granted, there they all are. I’d do it again in a second, though. Watching them take up space in a place that doesn’t yield that easily.”

“We’ll do it again. We will.”

“How’s your son doing?”

“Oh, good. You know.” She laughed again. “I don’t know. Teenagers. You think I’d know them by now, all this time shepherding them through their exams. But they’re full of surprises.” She was silent for a moment. “I don’t know what he’s going to do. But I guess they find their way. They all survive, don’t they? We’re here. And we don’t have the answers either, do we?”

“True. That’s true enough. We just tell them what we think works. What we know didn’t work for us.”

“They don’t listen though.”

“No. And they seem to come up with new ways of finding the same old trouble.”

“Please.” Natalie said. “Tell me about it. Like a magnet.”

“They’re all a bit mad.”

“We’re all a bit mad, not just them.” She looked around. “So, tell me about that man of yours. How’s married life then?”

Miranda smiled. “It’s good.” She ducked her head and pulled at her skirt. “Look, I’m pulling at my skirt. Didn’t even notice. Crazy.” She put her hand in the pocket of her coat. “Guess there are a lot of things to learn.”

Natalie stared at her for a minute, watched as Miranda put her hand in her coat, then pull it out again to straighten her bag on her shoulder. “There’s a lot for us all to learn.”

Miranda laughed, but it seemed to fall away in the flat grey light. The pub was in view now. People were debating whether they should sit outside so they could smoke, or just go in. “Apparently I forget to get sweets. Dessert.”

Natalie said nothing. Then she quickly grabbed Miranda’s arm. “If that’s the only problem so far, you’re probably lucky. He may need dessert, but you need a drink. And I’m buying.” Miranda started to protest. “No arguments, my love. What do you want? Vodka tonic? That’s mine.”

“Let me get them.”

“Hush. Vodka it is then.”

Miranda didn’t really like vodka, but it seemed wrong to not share. Or agree. The day they had spent out filming with the kids had been tremendous, amazing. Stop it, she thought. Don’t regret. It was good. You felt alive. Like it all had meaning. Even if you can’t remember what that feels like now.

Everyone filed through the parking lot, waving at the head of PE, Drew, as he parked. He had driven there in his car and he and the four other faculty members unstuffed themselves from the small beige car, like some kind of comedy routine. There was a big rusty swipe on the side panel, making the car look strangely vicious, like a dog ready to fight. Miranda saw Trevor, the music teacher, get out last, but Natalie was already holding the wooden door with the black wrought iron handle open for her, so Miranda followed her in, propping up the door for the rest of the crowd behind her.

The pub itself, this section at least, was old, low-ceilinged and half-timbered, fake horses’ brasses dangling from the piers holding up the ceiling that divided the long wooden bar into sections. There were red and green bar towels saying Youngs and Carlings neatly placed, and the whole thing looked stable, continuous, despite the TVs at either end. The old timers who glanced up at the intrusion from the horse racing, silently muttering to themselves only added to the feeling of something nearly holy. Hundreds of years of stepping off the high street. Into the dark. As it was, as it is now, and how it will ever be. Regardless of age, everyone had a pint in front of them, a phone and a pack of cigarettes making a neat tableau on each polished table.

Natalie was waving at her. “Vodka, love?”

“No, Natalie, actually, I think I’d really like a pint of lager. Stella. If that’s ok.”

She gave her a little funny look. “If you’re sure, but I don’t mind.”

“No, really, thanks. Seeing all this beer has made me think of only beer.” Miranda tried to laugh.

Natalie ordered, and the server gave her a hard, disinterested look while throwing more questions at her. “Tonic or soda? A pint? Do you need a menu?”

“No, no food yet. But I’m sure we will.” She grabbed the head of music, a neat blond woman. “Drink, Jane?”

“No, thanks Natalie. Just ordered a round for this lot coming in. They texted me.” She pointed in the direction of the group coming in, from the car. There was the music teacher, Trevor, the head of PE, Drew, and Catherine, who was one of the deputy heads, and Chris, the other drama teacher.

“Chris,” she exclaimed. “There he is. I hope he locked up. I was looking for him.” Then to Jane, “Well, next round then.” She paid for the drinks, and steered us to one of the tables that faced the bar. The man sitting in the corner looked at us and shrugged, and stared into his pint before swallowing some down. He looked around, as though gauging whether to order another or go. He put down the glass, and stared morosely at the TV. Another race was about to begin. He pulled out a slip. Maybe this one would be lucky.

Natalie waved at Chris. “Come sit over here, I’ve got a table.”

He waved back. “Be right there, Nats.” And then turned back to Drew, who was standing very still as he listened to whatever Chris was recounting, as they stood there waiting for their pints.

Natalie was sitting in one of the low wooden circular backed chairs, and Miranda was next to her on the red banquette. “Cheers,” she said, and they clinked glasses. Miranda had a long drink, feeling the mix of cold liquid and alcohol warmth race down her torso. She shivered. “Cold? Natalie asked. “I needed a drink. Thank god it’s half term. I’m shattered, really. And it wasn’t even a bad one.”

“I know, I know,” Miranda replied. “It went by pretty quickly too. I’d like to sleep all week.”

“Can’t you?” Natalie laughed. “I’m heading to a hotel tomorrow.”

“A hotel? Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere.” She laughed again. “A holiday from the house. Maid service. TV. A clean quiet room. Greenwich. Different side of the river.”

Miranda looked worried. “I never thought of doing that. Sounds pretty good, now that you’ve said it. But John will want his meals. There’s no money anyway.”

“He can cook! Come stay at mine. Have a night off.”

“He won’t. Can’t. I don’t know. He did make toast the other day.”

“How old is he? Even my son can heat up a tin of beans.” She looked sheepish for a moment. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re right. Really. He should.” She smiled and lifted up her pint. “He can heat up frozen foods pretty well, when he has to.”

“Go on strike. No meals. You’ll find out quick enough what he can and can’t do.” Natalie drank another sip. “Men. I don’t know. Claim they run everything, and they’re all just children. And they run off at the first sign of trouble.”

Miranda knew that Natalie’s boyfriend had left when her son was four. Said he could find a job in a different town, new contacts, right? New beginning. Can’t hold that back. And off he went. Kissed them both. Only brought a shoulder bag. It’s all I need, isn’t it? Natalie had told her that she had expected him to come back, send money, something. But after the first week, she tried to contact him, and his phone had been switched off. After a month, she managed to track him down. He’d made up a list of excuses and apologies a mile long and said he’d send a cheque. A week later a check for a hundred pounds turned up. She deposited it. It went through. Every so often, she’d receive a package with a card and a toy, or another check for a hundred pounds, always the same amount. When her son was about 10, that stopped too.

Miranda made a little face, and drank some more beer. “It’ll work out. I mean, it is. I guess. You never really realize…”

“How people are on their best behavior when they first hook up? Yeah, tell me about it. But their loss.” She looked up at Drew and Chris, who were still talking, heads closer together. “I wonder if something happened.” She looked at Miranda. “They’ll come over.” Miranda looked over at Chris, who had turned away from Drew for a minute, when he saw them looking at him. He patted Drew on the shoulder, and pointed at the ladies. Drew turned around, saw Natalie, and shook his head at her, although he was smiling, and started walking over.

“Natalie. Didn’t even see you there.” His deep voice matched his body, face adorned with a short pointed beard, a large head with short back and sides balanced over the sheer width of his body, half muscle, half flesh. He managed to shift his sizeable bulk around the table. “Miranda,” he smiled, “shift over. I can’t fit in those flimsy chairs.”

Chris began to laugh. “Learned your lesson, have you? From the last time. That was the fucking funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life mate. You on the ground.”

“Shut up, pipsqueak. I didn’t spill a drop.” A slightly evil smile widened his features. “Pint intact. All that matters.”

Chris snorted. “Not sure Kaylie felt that way.” He nodded over to the older women pulling pints behind the bar. So that was her name, Miranda thought.

Drew smiled again. “She loves me. They all do, right, Randy?” That was his nickname for her. He nudged her with his arm.

It was twice the size of her own, she noticed as she looked down and then back up at his face. He softened his smile slightly. He wasn’t a bad person. Not at all. He’d helped her out of a number of jams. Those moments where someone who had both physical size and some credibility from being the person who was in charge of the sports, who gave the kids their places on the teams, was the only thing that worked. He was the one who managed their chances with outreach from the local football teams, the one dream that couldn’t be defeated. He calmed them down, made them feel that he understood, but he didn’t take any shit either. She’d once sat in on one of the interrogations with the student’s family, and watched how he managed to get the kid to confess, apologize, agree to a behaviour plan for the next two weeks, and calm down the kid’s father as well. It was a skill. She didn’t have it. Not like that. She wasn’t one of them. She thought of Paul, with his limp, and his strange hair cut, and his bag of files. He wasn’t either. And he was from here. She lifted her pint. Didn’t matter.

“Complete and total love.” Miranda agreed just before she drank some of her beer. Chris squawked.

“What about me? I thought we were running away together,” Chris said. “I told Natalie, and everything.”

“Sorry Chris. Drew sat next to me. I’m convinced.” She laughed, and they all laughed because there was no way of knowing if any of it was true, or might be. Natalie watched her. She was a pretty thing, but clearly the last few months were starting to take their toll.

Drew drank half his beer down, then groaned loudly. “Yes, now that’s a start. Chris, you’re going to be here all night, right? Good,” as he saw Chris nod. “Natalie, that…” he glanced at me. “Your room was broken into again. But all taken care of.” He looked at Chris again. “We got there just as he heading for the desk. He tried to hide behind the curtains.” The tone of his voice implied that at least the kid had had some sense to try and run. “He’ll be excluded for the week after half term. Not sure what sort of punishment it is really, an extra week of holiday. But we think he was going for sound equipment. Can’t get into the locked closet, so the young rascal thought he’d try your room. Nothing of yours was touched.”

“Fuck,” Natalie said. “That’s depressing. Who was it?”

Chris answered. “Billy. Year 8 Billy.”

Natalie sighed. “You’re having a lot of trouble with him.”

Drew looked at him. “What’s been happening?”

“A lot of stupid things really. Year 8. Got in a fight, threw a chair. Told a girl she was a slag, then she punched him.” He raised his glass. “And somewhere in there, we do a little drama.” He laughed.

“I think there’s things going on at home. We’ll get mum up, see what the situation is.” Drew turned to Miranda. “Do you have him?”

“No, I think I’ve got his older brother though. Year 10. Been missing some classes. Some out of school, some cutting. Kept him in the other day. But he wouldn’t talk. Just sat there. Wouldn’t work either.”

Drew frowned. “Next time you keep him in, get me up there, if I can.” He drank the rest of his pint. “Feels a bit like the whole school’s going to shit. It’s going to be beautiful when the weather gets warm. Not sure how you teach them anything once it feels like spring.”

Natalie piped up. “We wanted to do classes outside.” She lowered her voice, and nodded towards Catherine, the deputy head who was at the bar. “The … said no.”

Drew gave that evil smile again. “Yeah, so I heard. I’ll work on her.” Then he raised his voice. “Can’t keep them all caged in, even if Catherine thinks it’s a good idea.” Then he turned around, waved to her, pointing to his glass. “Drink, Cathy?” His voice boomed out across the pub.

She smiled at him. She had a pretty loud voice too. “Been waiting for you to buy me a drink. Gin and tonic. What’s this about caging them up? Always open to new ideas.” She cackled, and he began to get up.

“Duty calls,” and he winked at Chris, as he went past. “Suppose you want another one and all.”

“I wouldn’t say no, mate, cheers.”

“Ladies? Vodka tonic, Natalie? What’s that, Stella for you Miranda, a pint? Of course it is.” Drew rested one of his giant hands on Chris’ shoulder for a moment.

“Thanks,” Miranda called out after him, but he was already bearing down on Catherine, who was standing at the bar, ramrod straight, short red hair framing an expression that indicated as much fox terrier tenacity as guile. She was a veteran of these schools. She liked to stare people down until they started feeling guilty, no matter what they had or hadn’t done. Education was secondary. What mattered was power. Who had it, who didn’t. Drew knew this, and played her at her own game. He was one of the only ones who dared.

Miranda looked over at Chris. Chris was watching Drew’s every move. He wasn’t planning on staying in the classroom.

 

 

 


End file.
